by Olivia Luck
Her smile is watery, but she doesn’t cry. Thankfully. I don’t have the slightest idea what to do with tears. “Look at me, I’m a blubbering mess. They didn’t warn me at orientation that the kids wouldn’t necessarily be thrilled to spend a few hours here.”
“After doing this for five years, I can tell you that even if they want to be here, teenagers will walk all over you if you show them even a hint of weakness. Next week, you need to show them who is boss. Be firm. It sounds counterintuitive, but they appreciate the guidelines.”
“Really?” When those navy doe eyes land on me, another surge of lust rips through my veins.
“Also, you may want to let them choose the music.” Her eyes crinkle as she gives me the tiniest smile. My chest fills with pride. I was able to cheer her up.
“You’re on to something there. I know my taste in music is retro.” She rolls her shoulders back and stands straighter. “Thanks, Oscar. I appreciate you talking me off the ledge.” To my regret, Iris moves around the kitchen, continuing to put the tools away and clean the counters. “If you’ve been volunteering here for five years, you must really like working with teenagers.”
I rest my back against the kitchen island and watch Iris finish. She fiddles with the dishrag in her hands. I know I should go, but that’s the last thing I want to do. So I keep talking to her.
“I’ll let you in on a secret. My first year was complete crap. The students didn’t care that I had just opened my second restaurant. They were tough as hell on me. By the end of it, I realized they weren’t looking for a friend.”
“Treat them like kids?” Her nose wrinkles adorably in confusion.
“Absolutely not. I try my damnedest not to even think of them as children, even though most of them are a few years shy of voting. Talk to them as you would anyone else, but remember that you are in charge. Don’t expect to get it right. You only see them once a week. But by the end, you’ll get the hang of it, and I promise you, this will be a rewarding experience. Next semester will be substantially easier.”
Iris’ expression softens. Her eyes tender and soft.
Fuck me.
Seeing her at Tucker’s place, I thought my physical reaction was a fluke. In that blue dress carrying a plateful of cookies, she was innocence wrapped in the most seductive package. This interaction confirms it—Iris makes me feel like a teenager who can’t control his own body.
“Thank you, Oscar. You have no idea how much I needed to hear that,” she says in a near whisper.
All of a sudden, I can’t resist her pull. Or maybe I’m finally willing to admit to myself that Iris Harper has me intrigued in a way I won’t ignore.
“Come to dinner with me.”
Iris’ dark blond eyebrows nearly hit her hairline. Her mouth falls open in disbelief, and her cheeks redden adorably. A million warning signs flash in my mind, but I’m ignoring all of them. I want her.
“What did you say?” Even her stammer entrances me. The lack of sultry finesse makes her unsoiled, honest, and alluring in the sort of way that’s been completely foreign to me until now.
“Come to dinner with me Saturday.”
“You don’t have to work on the weekend? I would imagine that’s the most important time in the restaurant industry,” she babbles. God. Awkward as she is, Iris makes me hard.
Little does Iris know she’s exactly right. I should be making an appearance at Mariposa on Saturday evening or finalizing the Mariquita menu. Right now, I can’t remember why any of that is important. My sole mission is to spend more time with this woman.
I give her my most non-threatening smile, and she visibly swallows. Got her. “Sometimes, I need to play hooky. Will you sneak off with me, Iris?”
Hope twinkles in her eyes. A sharp jab to the gut. She thinks there’s a chance it would be more than one date. I’ll worry about that when the time comes.
Her tongue flicks out to wet her lips, and I nearly groan aloud. “Okay.” She draws out the word into multiple syllables. “Where will we go?”
Guessing that a table at one of the city’s hottest restaurants won’t impress her, I plan to take her to an authentic Mexican restaurant in Pilsen. “A secret until Saturday.”
She smiles shyly. “I like surprises.”
We exchange phone numbers, and dammit, my heart races in my chest like I’ve just won a 50-yard dash. All I can think about is how I’m going to make those deep blue eyes smoke out with pleasure.
“Is this a fancy surprise or a casual surprise?” she asks a few minutes later when we’re walking to her car. I’m holding the bulk of her supplies (and mine), trying to ignore the warning voice in my head screaming that this is a terrible idea. I know exactly what I’m getting myself into, yet I won’t heed to reason. She’s going to expect more than one night with me, and I’m going to turn her down.
And potentially hurt her.
A silent war rages in my mind—but the selfish, self-serving part of me wins. Be upfront. Tell her you’re not looking for a relationship. And therein lies my solution. On Saturday, there will be no mistaking that our date is a one-time thing.
“A casual surprise.”
“So . . . I’ll see you Saturday,” Iris confirms after we load the trunk of her car.
Reaching down, I tuck an errant strand of honey-blond hair behind her ear. I hear her tiny intake of breath and nearly smirk.
She wants me.
“I’ll call you to arrange a time.” None of this texting bullshit. I’m a man, not a pre-pubescent teen without the balls to call a woman.
“Okay.” She sounds breathless—a sexy promise of things to come.
“Drive safely.”
“You too,” she murmurs.
Once I watch her leave the parking lot, I make my way to my own vehicle—humming.
Who is in more trouble here, you or Iris?
It’s hard to tell.
Iris
My first date. It only took twenty-seven years to get here.
Early, early this morning (as in before my first cup of coffee), Oscar left me a voice mail and told me to be ready by seven tonight. It is half past six, and I am nearly ready. Or at least, I think I’m ready. Violet’s not here for last-minute advice or a pep talk.
For the first time in ten years, I find myself not wishing for my sister to be at my side. I didn’t tell her Oscar had asked me out, and I said yes. Then I’d have to admit, out loud, that I am a twenty-seven-year-old woman who has never had a man interested enough in her to ask her on a date. I know I don’t need to be embarrassed or ashamed of anything in front of my sister because it’s not her judgment that I stand to face. It’s my own. If I focus on my inexperience, I’ll wimp out on this date before Oscar takes me to the restaurant.
Of course, once I tell Violet, she’ll tell Cameron, and I already know his opinion on the matter. This date might not go anywhere. Oscar might wear too much cologne or bore me.
Yeah, like that’s going to happen.
With a critical eye, I assess my appearance in the full-length mirror on my closet door. The warm temperatures are cooling into Indian summer. I tucked a white silky button-down blouse into a pleated, burgundy skirt. Even though I’m still not a pro at navigating with heels, I have on tan, strappy sandals to give me a couple of extra inches. My hair flows around my shoulders in loose waves, and I painted my lips with a pink gloss. The rest of my makeup is subdued with a few swipes of mascara and eyeliner at the corners of my eyes.
The unforgiving bleep of the doorbell startles me. Glancing at my watch, I realize it’s exactly seven o’clock. Holy cow. Those thirty minutes swam by quickly. I grab my nude clutch, place it under my arm, and hurry toward the intercom downstairs. “Be down in one minute,” I say. Then I rush through the apartment, shutting off all the illuminated lights, and then race out the door. I don’t want to keep Oscar waiting.
The moment I see him waiting for me outside the back apartment building door, I come to a halt. With a hand shoved in his denim p
ocket, a few days’ stubble covering his cheeks and his relaxed stance, he looks perfectly at ease and . . . gorgeous. There’s no other word to describe the man on the other side of the door. Dark-washed denim fits his muscular legs in all the right ways—not too baggy and not too tight. A slate gray t-shirt hugs his biceps and broad chest. He must own a closet full of these monochromatic shirts, but no matter. The color sets off his tan and complements his cinnamon-colored eyes. My heart thuds in my chest.
Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Ba-bump.
Then he smiles, and I realize I’m standing there inside staring at him like a statue.
Laughing at myself, I push the door open. “Like what you see?” Oscar says in a ridiculously deep, teasing voice.
I ignore the way my cheeks get hot. “I like the way you look.”
The teasing glint in his brown eyes disappears. They darken with an intensity that makes me want to shiver. Somehow, I manage to stay still as Oscar reaches out to drag his knuckles along the apple of my cheek. “That’s good because I like the way you look.”
A foot separates us. If I took a step closer, our chests would nearly touch. If I moved to my tiptoes, my lips would fuse to his. What would it be like to kiss Oscar? What would it be like to have a meaningful kiss?
It seems I’m not the only one in a trance. Oscar stares at me with . . . Is that hunger? His eyes darken to nearly black. His lips are parted, too. He wants to kiss me too. I know it.
Somewhere on Milwaukee Avenue, an angry driver lays his entire weight on his car horn. The noise makes my shoulders jump, and I laugh a little at the interruption. The noise makes Oscar blink a few times, dark eyelashes fanning as his eyes open and shut.
“Shall we?” Oscar touches the tips of his fingers to my lower back, guiding me to his low-slung sports car. I revel in the unfamiliar attention and am thrilled when he opens the passenger door.
“Chivalry isn’t dead.” I smile at him appreciatively when I settle into the plush leather seat.
“My mother would be overjoyed to hear you say that,” Oscar says dryly, though not unkindly. He shuts the door, and I buckle my seat belt.
Eagerness races through me. I wasn’t joking when I said I love surprises.
Oscar maneuvers into the driver’s seat gracefully. He presses a button and the ignition purrs to life. “Have you been to Pilsen?”
“That’s near Bridgeport, right?” Oscar nods. “I drove through once on the way to a site visit with a bride. She didn’t want the venue, and I haven’t been back since.”
Oscar casts a wolfish look my way. “Good. I’m glad to give you your first.”
A delicious, liquid heat unfurls low in my belly. I fight off a tremble of anticipation and trepidation.
“Don’t look so scared, Iris. We’re talking about authentic Mexican food. Unless something else is on your mind . . .” From my view of his profile, I see him lift one dark eyebrow.
A bubble of nervous laughter builds in my chest.
“I—er—um.” Come on, words! Work with me.
Oscar places one large hand on my knee. I’m thankful for the cotton skirt separating our skin. If I get this hot from his touch, I can’t image what it would feel like if his palm closed around my naked kneecap. He squeezes the joint. “Relax.”
Something in his husky drawl does the trick. My unknowingly tense shoulders go slack, and I press the length of my spine into the chair back. “Officially relaxed,” I joke lightly.
Oscar twists a knob on the armrest separating the two front seats. A moment later, jazz music fills the cabin of the car.
“I love Billie Holiday.”
His lips curve. “Me, too. Beware, for the most part, Mentoring Chicago students aren’t into the classics yet.”
“Thanks for the tip. Next week, I’m instituting a student playlist policy. As long as the songs have no explicit language. Gosh, I can’t believe the way they swear so freely. Is that allowed in the classroom?”
“They’re testing your limits and seeing how far they can push you. It happens every semester with every batch of students, but you’ll get the hang of it. And when you’re lost, fake it until you get back on track,” Oscar advises. I envy his seamless confidence.
“I can’t imagine you faking anything,” I say.
Oscar chuckles a deep throaty noise. “Authenticity is important to me, but when it comes to managing a group of rowdy teenagers, I’ll employ any tactics necessary. All’s fair in love and war.”
I can’t hide my giggle this time. “You do realize you’re comparing warfare to spending a couple hours a week with teenagers.”
The car halts at a red light and Oscar gives turns his head to fully face me. “Need I remind you of last Wednesday? You looked like someone had kicked your puppy and stolen your favorite spatula.”
“Don’t even try to tell me you don’t have a favorite knife.”
“Touché.” He gives me another one of his distractedly sexy grins then moves the car forward when florescent green replaces red. The banter flows easily as he navigates his car south on Lake Shore Drive. As soon as Oscar halts his outrageous flirting, I do unwind and end up feeling comfortable enough to converse with him as I do my sister or Cameron.
Before I realize it, twenty minutes have flown by, and we arrive at our destination. Somehow, Oscar finds a parking spot directly in front of the restaurant—Casita. The façade of the building is brick with large windows showing a busy eatery. Some of the customers are even waiting outside.
“Wait,” Oscar orders when the car is in park. He climbs out of the vehicle, strides around the front end of the car, and moves to open the passenger door. He extends a hand down to help me from the car. Our hands touch and there goes my heart, thumping so wildly in my chest I wonder if he can see the movement through my blouse.
Oscar’s expression is unreadable. He stares at me with such intensity I wonder if I’ve done something to upset him. The indiscernible emotion disappears with one blink. “Prepare yourself. This is the best authentic Mexican in the city.”
Again, his fingertips find the small of my back as we walk to the door of the restaurant. He pulls open the door, allowing me to enter first. He stays close to me, guiding us through the people crowded around the host stand. The moment the host spots Oscar, his harried expression morphs into a thrilled smile.
“Señor Oscar! Welcome.”
Oscar’s hand falls from my back to shake the man’s hand. “Good to see you, Manuel.”
“As always, it’s our pleasure to have you here. That mention you made of us in the Tribune has brought a tremendous boost in business.” Then Manuel notices me and, if possible, his grin grows wider. Thankfully, he doesn’t voice his observations. “Your table is ready. Right this way.” Manuel leads us through a maze of tables covered in red tablecloths and aromatic food.
At the table, Oscar shoos Manuel away allowing him to pull out my chair.
“You’re spoiling me, you know,” I say when he is sitting across from me.
“How do you figure?”
“Other men don’t have such perfect manners.” Oscar’s features tighten imperceptibly, and again, I wonder if I stepped on a landmine. “M-manners are falling to the wayside,” I backtrack.
An uncomfortable silence passes for a beat. A server arrives to place a plastic basket of tortilla chips and two bowls of salsa. He pours two glasses of water and then disappears just as quickly as he appeared.
“I’m pleased to hear you say that because I don’t date often,” Oscar says.
My heart jumps into my throat. What does that mean? God, I don’t want to be naïve, but it’s not far of a leap to think that this means something about me made him want to break his non-dating streak.
And then my heart plummets from my chest to the bottom of my stomach as he continues speaking. “Never been one for relationships. Work has me occupied nearly seven days a week. It’s never ending, especially with the Mariquita opening in a few months,” Oscar adds.
All
that innocent pride disappears within a matter of seconds. What is Oscar trying to tell me? I feel my brow furrowing in confusion. I open my mouth to ask him, but then shut it immediately.
This is a first date. Take a breath and see where it goes.
Wanting to change the subject, I start rambling. “I don’t know much about your restaurants,” I confess. “But from what I do know, all of your places have Spanish names. Is all of the food of Latin descent?”
“Each location is different. Mariquita is the only one with a heavy Latin influence. It will be a bocadillo shop with affordable sandwiches, and we’re trying out a menu of homemade sodas,” Oscar explains.
Then a waiter appears and greets Oscar in a similarly friendly way as the host did. They speak rapidly in Spanish. I took a few years in high school, but I am mostly unable to follow. I study the plastic-coated menu while they talk, feeling out of place. A few minutes later, Oscar addresses me. “What would you like to drink?”
“Oh, water is fine for me,” I say quickly.
“You may want to reconsider. The Casita house margarita is a force.”
I worry my bottom lip with my teeth. It’s not that I’ve never had a drink in my life, but I don’t want to get loose lips from the alcohol or make a fool of myself by stumbling on shaky limbs. On the other hand, I want to fully experience this date. Nothing says I have to finish the drink if it starts to go to my head. “Okay, I’ll try it,” I acquiesce.
“Good,” Oscar says with approval. The waiter leaves, and again, I have his full attention. I push away the little annoyance at Oscar ignoring me. He seems well acquainted with Casita, so I shouldn’t get too worked up over him semi-ignoring me to talk to the waiter in a language I don’t understand.
“You don’t drink much,” he says.
“Not often,” I agree.
“Why’s that?” he asks bluntly.
“There’s no topic you won’t broach, is there?” The question is asked without bitterness.
“Not really.” Oscar extends one hand on the table and leans back in his seat. “Pretense and game playing aren’t for me. I don’t dance around things. If you don’t want to talk about a particular topic, all you have to do is say so.”
